


like kisses on my skin (it is you, always)

by Vilchen



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 100 ways to say i love you, Collection of AUs, Don't copy to another site, Drabble Collection, M/M, fluff angst and everything in between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22761481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilchen/pseuds/Vilchen
Summary: A collection of drabbles inspired by the 100 ways to say 'I love you' post which you can findhere.Each chapter is a new drabble, a new prompt and a new way for Victor and Yuuri to say 'I love you'.Chapter 4: A handsome stranger and a night Victor never wants to forget.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41





	1. "Drive safely."

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of drabbles inspired by the 100 ways to say 'I love you' post which you can find [here](http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you).
> 
> Each chapter is a new drabble and a new 'I love you'. Enjoy! :)
> 
> 28\. "Drive safely."
> 
> For Kathe 💜

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loving cyberpunk husbands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28\. "Drive safely."
> 
> For Kathe ♡ Enjoy!

Victor wakes in the earliest hours of the morning, chased from slumber by the thundering weather outside. Heavy rain beats against the window with a sound like pebbles bouncing off glass, unbearably loud. He feels for Yuuri next to him, but there’s nothing but rumpled sheets and a cold mattress left of him. A flash of lightning outside illuminates the room, followed by a roll of thunder.

He raises slowly, grimacing and clutching his bandaged thigh on the way up. His cane rests on a chair by the bedside, but he lets it be. The first steps in the morning are always the worst. Victor drapes a robe around himself and humps around to Yuuri’s side of the bed where loose papers are strewn out on the bedside table.

He thumbs through them. Some are just loose sketches of Makkachin, old machine parts and scribbled commentary in Japanese, but there’re also more detailed drawings of machinery Victor vaguely recognizes from Yuuri’s work station in the basement. Arrows and underlined comments marks them as more important, so he places them off to the side.

The last one in the bunch is also the most detailed one. A pair of magnificent, mechanical wings, stretched out wide across the page and with each jagged metal feather precisely sketched.They’re attached to the back of a man with Victor’s features sketched lovingly into the paper.

Victor lets his finger follow out the shape of the wings, a ghost memory of cool metal beneath his fingertips. He pauses at the joint where the wings come together, right beneath the face of the sketched mannequin. It is by far the most detailed part of the drawing, and Yuuri always sketches with such care for the things he loves.

Victor swallows, surprised at how dry his throat suddenly is it. He sorts the work-related sketches into a neat little pile and leaves it at the desk beneath the window where the rest of Yuuri’s work lays undisturbed. The dog bed is empty as well, so Victor flips the light switch and lets himself out of the bedroom.

The hallway is empty, the three other doors firmly locked. Victor pads around the corner, past Mila's bedroom and one of Guang Hong's storage rooms. The house stood abandoned for a long time before they came here, and still there are more unused rooms than occupied ones. They're just waiting, though. Victor knows exactly which rooms are reserved for Christophe, Sara and Leo once they get out, just like he's sure they _will_ eventually get out. And still there'll be rooms to spare.

He stops by the kitchen for tea. Yuuri sometimes gets lost in his own mind and forgets the basics, but it's alright. He has Victor to look out for him.

Victor raps his knuckles on the door to Yuuri's garage and counts to ten. There’s no response, so he opens the door and slips in unnoticed. He blinks to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights from the ceiling and almost trips over one of Yuuri's countless toolboxes left by the door. One wall is dedicated completely to blueprints, and beneath it is a work bench littered with tools, prototypes and loose machinery. Makkachin peeks up from her bed in the corner, tail wagging weakly to greet him.

A pair of legs poke out from beneath the car standing proudly on display in the middle of the room. The centrepiece of Yuuri’s collection and his greatest creation. She is all sleek lines and powered by a granitox core built straight from Yuuri’s mind. Victor doesn’t know the details, but he knows she’s fast, trusty and seen as a threat by the ISU. As it stands, she’s the only thing standing between his Yuuri and a life behind the bars of a scientific center.

He avoids looking at the wall behind it. God knows he’s spent enough time staring at the remains of his last flight. Broken, torched. Shot straight out of the sky. He clears his throat and licks his lips, focuses on his own breathing for a minute. The ground beneath his feet mocks him.

Victor places Yuuri's mug on his workbench and straddles an office chair with his own cup of tea cradled in his hands. The pounding rain sounds more like a drizzle down here. That and the sound of Yuuri's tinkering lulls Victor into a comfortable daze.

Some time later, when Victor's cup is almost empty and the one on the bench is barely steaming, the sounds beneath the car stop. A tired sigh reaches Victor’s ears.

«Finished?» he asks, chin resting on his folded arms. At the sound of his voice, Yuuri's legs go very still. So he hadn’t noticed, after all. Must be something important going on down there, then.

«Weather woke me up and you weren’t there," he says.«Saw your sketches, so I came down here in case you've found out how to build a prettier husband than me.» The last part is a joke, but Yuuri doesn’t laugh. He lays still beneath the car.

«Did you see⎯⎯ ... Do you like them?»

«Yes» Victor says, tilting his cup this way and that way to evenly warm the porcelain. «They’re magnificent. Beautiful.»

It gets quiet. Yuuri doesn’t say anything, so Victor doesn’t either—or maybe it’s the other way around. Yuuri shoves himself out from beneath the car, hands dirty and rough. He opens his mouth, closes it. Frowns. Victor almost reaches out to smooth out the wrinkle between his brows, but he can't decide if it's for his own sake or Yuuri's, so he doesn't.

«It’s not… you don’t have to—» Yuuri's jaw clenches. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. «We won’t rush. Your leg needs time to heal.»

The ISU won’t give them time. Their research reaches new milestones every day, and Sara, Leo, Christophe—there’s no guarantee for how long they’ll last, how much more time they can buy them. The ISU’s operators have been closing in on them; they’re snapping at their heels; cutting of their escape routes; upping their security with new cameras on every street corner; hunting down their informants and shooting at their allies. That’s why Victor’s stuck down here in the first place, with a damaged leg and a new wariness for heights he can't quite shake.

But Yuuri’s lips are bitten red. The screwdriver is twisted around and around in Yuuri’s dirty hands like he’s trying to reset time itself, and they both know it's not inspiration that drives him down here at night to work on things that don't need fixing. They both have trouble sleeping these days.

So Victor holds his tongue. Yuuri needs him to be his eyes in the sky, not the voice in his head. He knows better than anyone, better than Victor even, that has to change. Yuuri’s whole body is like a string pulled taught, but beneath Victor’s warm palm it’s easier to let go. They can pretend. For now.

«I know. There’s still time. We'll continue like we’ve been doing; strike abandoned labs until I'm ready to fly again. It’s fine—we're fine.»

They sit, close. More time passes, but it’s fine. Yuuri breathes in and out, shaky at first, then calmer, until his exhales go quiet. Then he talks. Murmured conversation of how he’s planning to improve the wings. A stronger frame with reinforced joints to withstand tougher weather conditions. He’s got a whole new plan for the feather composition to improve flexibility, and he’s gonna check in with Guang Hong to see if his miniature jets can be incorporated into the mainframe for speed and increase manoeuvrability. A whole new software for the tracking system. A new set of defense mechanisms to make sure he’s never shot out of the sky again.

By the time Otabek comes knocking at the door with a breakfast tray, the floor is littered in sketches of wings, cars, poodles and wedding cakes. His expressions softens, however small the change is, when he sees the two of them curled up o the floor, Yuuri fast asleep against Victor's shoulder. He holds up three fingers. Thirty minutes until go-time.

Victor touches his hand to Yuuri's forehead. «Yuuri, darling. It’s almost dawn.»

They eat in silence until Mila bursts in with her arms full of equipment, Phichit in tow. Yuuri is ushered into his gear, hair swept back and red contacts flashing in the light while the optical analysis of his surroundings swims before his eyes. The car is checked over, the coms are put in place, last minute blueprints are scanned into the system, and before he knows it the garage gates open and the engine roars to life.

Victor abandons his cane and humps over to the car door, swallowing a demand for him to stay until Victor can join him in the sky and be his eyes again. Instead he lets his breath flow out in a shaky exhale and reaches for Yuuri's face. He can just barely separate the red contacts from the original brown of Yuuri's eyes. 

«Drive safely,» he says. _Come back to me in one piece_ , he doesn’t say. One step at a time, always—that’s all they can afford. Yuuri smiles, warm and loving and everything Victor can’t afford to loose.

«Always,» he says and rears the engine into action. Off to fix the world. For them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I,,, tried. Cyberpunk isn't a genre I'm familiar with, but I did my best. Yuuri has a hover board. Victor has gun holsters strapped to his thighs. They raid labs for fancy tech to fight the ISU with. And they're in love. A part two of this au can be found [here!](https://vilchenwriteswords.tumblr.com/post/622177449194782720/like-kisses-on-my-skin-it-is-you-always)
> 
> Now with this beautiful [art](https://mandolinearts.tumblr.com/post/614679858965053440/its-ninety-nine-revolutions-tonight) by [mandolinearts!](https://linktr.ee/mandolinearts)
> 
> Feel free to yell(gently) at me in the comments!  
> [my writing blog](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vilchenwriteswords)


	2. "It's two sugars, right?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Office au, pining and coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 64\. "It's two sugars, right?"
> 
> For Mel ♡ Enjoy!

The death of the piece-of-shit coffee machine on their floor is the single greatest curse and blessing of Yuuri’s already miserable Monday morning. It’s no secret that they have the shittiest coffee in the entire building, and there have been plenty of signs leading up to this tragic—though not unexpected—day. For the past couple of weeks it’s been making suspicious gurgling noises before every refill, and if you came within two inches of the macchiato button it would completely shut off until Yuri Plisetsky kicked it back to life.

But even though they've all seen it coming, there are absolutely no one who's happy about having to trudge through a Monday morning with nothing but the glaring sun to keep them awake. Yuuri (who absolutely regrets staying up late to watch cute dogs compilations on youtube) lasts exactly thirty minutes before he wants to toss this morning’s pile of files in the bin. He was already balancing the line of sleepy and grumpy before he showed up at work, and he would've really appreciated not having to go up the stairs to the floor above them for the same shitty coffee he could've gotten here if the machine hadn't decided to screw them all over in a last act of petty spite. 

Phichit shoots him a pitiful look as he gets up, but the corner of his lip is tugged up in a self-satisfied smirk around the cup of his home-brewed tea. For a brief moment, Yuuri wants to chuck his stupid, rainbow printed thermos out the window. If coffee doesn’t fix the issue, maybe he will.

Yuuri’s sour mood doesn’t clear up once he reaches the next floor and sees there’s a goddamn line for the coffee. Apparently he’s not the only one despairing on this fine coffee-less morning, so he swallows down a sigh and gets in line like the dutiful citizen he strives to be.

Standing still eventually ends up putting his brain in standby mode until he's practically swaying while standing up. Would it be rude to lean on the person if front of him? Just to rest for a little while, maybe close his eyes and meditate. Didn’t Minako once tell him meditation was good for drowsiness? And the man in front of him does have a pair of _very_ nice shoulders. He’s very tall, so much so that it would be no problem for Yuuri to plant his forehead in the middle of his back. What a good looking back. And his suit jacket looks very soft to the touch.

The man in front of him reaches for one of the standard coffee mugs and pushes the button for plain black coffee. Their coffee machine is of the same brand as the one on Yuuri’s floor, so he guesses this one is just as unreliable when it comes to anything fancier than a cappuccino as the old one. Better go classic, then.

Yuuri places his own mug into the slot and pushes the button. Next to him the man is fiddling with the small packs of sugar, adding two and stirring slowly, probably to procrastinate going back to his desk. He’s got a good looking front, too, Yuuri notes. High cheekbones, straight nose, stylish haircut.

The man glances up and catches Yuuri’s stare. His eyes are very blue. Yuuri didn’t know he had a thing for blue eyes. A small smile twists the corner of the man’s lips up, something pleased and heart shaped that does _things_ to him. Yuuri can’t tell if the blush creeping up his neck is from being caught looking or if it’s an effect from that smile. The man winks and heads back down the hallway. Yuuri’s stare lingers.

Phichit raises an eyebrow at the redness in Yuuri’s cheeks when he comes back down, but he’s pointedly ignored. The pile of files on Yuuri’s desk has grown since he left, but Yuuri’s surprisingly okay with that. He sips his coffee and hums—it’s not that bad.

* * *

The next two weeks are filled with more coffee refills than what’s strictly necessary on Yuuri’s part. The man—Victor, if Yuuri overheard right last week—is a man of routine, and they end up in line behind each other more often than not. Yuuri still daydreams of burying his face into his back, but that would most likely result in a filed complaint of inappropriate work behaviour and Yuuri needs money to live, so.

Their interactions consist of sideways glances and small smiles, but with every new cup, Yuuri grows more sure of himself. It can’t be that complicated to officially introduce oneself, can it? But alas, every time he thinks to say something the words get stuck in his throat and refuse to come up. _Next time_ , he tells himself.

But, like all decent things in the world, it all goes to shit before Yuuri can cash in on it. Apparently there have been some issues with the upstairs coffee machine as well, lately, and when half of the workers on Yuuri’s floor migrated upwards… it became too much. So now both floors stand without a machine, and Yuuri's excuse to visit is no longer valid. Bye, bye Victor’s beautiful back and even more beautiful face and even more, more beautiful smile.

It’s disappointing, for sure, but Yuuri pushes the thought away. There’s nothing to be done about it. Instead of heading downstairs where there is coffee, but also Michele Crispino, Yuuri finally takes Phichit up on his advice and starts bringing his own thermos to work. Less stress and fewer staircases. It happens _once_ , and _only_ once, that someone sneaks themselves a cup of his coffee while Yuuri's on a break. No one questions it when Chadwick requests to move desks to the other side of the office the next day.

* * *

Yuuri sighs and rolls his shoulders to work out the stiffness. The other desks around him are all dark and abandoned, and there’s no other sound than the old, crotchety printer in the corner to fill the silence. The clock on the wall ticks ever closer to the departure time of the train he’d decided to take home, and outside it’s already dark and raining. Working overtime sucks, even more so when there’s nothing but leftover meatloaf waiting for him in the fridge back home.

He turns off his computer, packs his messenger bag, tucks the thermos beneath his arm and gathers the papers from the printer. Christophe needs these new schedules first thing in the morning come Monday, so he’ll save them both some stress by just leaving them at his desk.

Christophe works on the same floor as Victor. Yuuri contemplates different scenarios in which they coincidentally meet now, after everyone has left. Maybe he’ll be shirtless… Yuuri snorts. Now _that_ would be something. At this hour even the cleaning staff must’ve left, so that fantasy is (although beautiful) tragically unrealistic. He really should take Phichit up on that offer to set him up with a friend of his, if this is what he’s come to.

He plans to be quick in and quick out, but lo and behold; he’s not the only poor soul stuck at work on a Friday evening. A single desk is lit by a lamp and the blue light of a computer screen, revealing what looks to be a barely awake Victor. There’s a pile of files on his desk marked with green—green is for urgent, Yuuri’s mind supplies.

Victor rubs his eyes, one of the biggest yawns Yuuri’s ever seen tearing out of him. One hand reaches for the mug on his desk, but aborts the motion halfway through. No coffee on this floor, right. It looks like Victor’s night is far from over yet.

Yuuri swallows, very conscious of the thermos tucked under his arm. There should be enough for one more cup. Yuuri’s hands are remarkably steady as he pours it into one of the bland office mugs and tears up two packages of sugar. He stirs, counting his own breaths as he does.

Victor doesn’t notice him as he approaches, too busy staring into the void of his computer as if the (very cute) picture of a poodle he has as his background will come to life and move if he just stares hard enough. Yuuri clears his throat, already feeling the blush on his face spreading.

«I, uhh.» The words are stuck in his throat. He fumbles with the mug and holds it out for Victor to take, almost spilling in the process. «It’s two sugars, right?»

His face _burns_ , but Victor’s hands are there, covering Yuuri’s around the cup. He smiles, warm and heart shaped.

Their next coffee is shared at a coffee shop just around the corner of Yuuri’s apartment. The interior is comfy, it smells richly of a dark roast, and it turns out Victor is surprisingly okay with letting Yuuri bury his face in his back. The rest kind of works out on its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Office au written by someone who had to google 'what do people do at offices'. And as a heads up; I'd like to explore different aus and tropes in this, so not all chapters will be established relationship. Thank you for reading ♡
> 
> Feel free to yell(gently) in the comments or come say hi to me on Tumblr! :))
> 
> [my main](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vilchen)
> 
> [my writing tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vilchenwriteswords)


	3. "It's not heavy. I'm stronger than I look."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tale of Victor's sprained ankle, feat. an out-of-order elevator and Yuuri, the devoted fiancé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22\. "It's not heavy. I'm stronger than I look."
> 
> For Tess ♡ Enjoy!

«Stop your whining, Vitya,» Yakov says, holding the door until Victor has hobbled over the threshold with his crutches. Yuuri follows behind with both his and Victor’s bags slung over his shoulder, tapping on his phone to order them both an uber back home.

«I told you not to overdo it, didn’t I? You should be grateful it’s only for two weeks!»

«Yes, coach; you’re right, coach. I’ll listen carefully next time,» Victor says, head tilted to the side and carefree grin in place for maximum level of spite.

«I don’t want to see you at the rink until you’ve gotten the doctor’s approval, Vitya, or I swear to god—»

«Ah ah, no can do, Yakov; Yuuri has lots of work to do before Four Continents, so you’ll see plenty of me the next couple of weeks, don’t worry!»

Yuuri watches with scientific curiosity as Yakov’s expression goes sour and he fishes out his car keys to jab them in Victor’s face.

«You won’t set a single skate on that ice, you hear me?»

Yuuri clears his throat and both of their heads snap towards him. Ah, they must’ve completely forgotten about him, then. He holds up his phone with a mildly furious text from Yuri demanding to know why Yakov isn’t back yet to work with him.

«Our ride should be here in five minutes, and Yura’s ice time starts soon. I think we’ll be alright from here. Thank you, coach.»

Yakov gives a begrudging nod, then one last warning look to Victor before he gets into his old, beat-up Skoda and slams the door shut. Yuuri’s still working on seeing the difference between when Yakov is angry mad and when he’s caring mad, but there’d been no hesitation when they called him earlier today to ask if he could drive them to the infirmary. Worried mad, but not disappointed mad, he thinks.

«Yakov has been my coach for almost fifteen years,» Victor says quietly. «He looks out for me.»

His smile has slipped off now, eyes set on the corner Yakov’s car disappeared around. Yuuri slips his hand into Victor’s, squeezes and strokes the back of it with his thumb until Victor’s expression clears and his gaze shifts to Yuuri with a fond smile, one that’s never caught on camera. It’s reserved for Yuuri and Makkachin only.

Their uber pulls up only a few minutes later, a cheerful woman in her forties behind the wheel. Yuuri helps Victor into the backseat with his crutches and slides in next to him with a tentative greeting to their driver. Victor rests his head against the window and spends the entire trip gazing out the window while Yuuri navigates through light conversation with their driver. She apparently thinks his wobbly Russian is the cutest thing and recognizes them from tv, though she doesn’t know a thing about figure skating.

When she drops them off, she gets both a selfie, a five-star rating and a generous tip.

Yuuri holds the door to the apartment complex open for Victor with a bit of a flourish and a cheeky _after you,_ which earns him another smile and a quick peck on the lips as thanks, but they both stop short before the elevator.

Out of order. Of course.

Victor’s face falls, his crutch meeting the floor with a bit more force than needed. They have the top apartment, seven floors up. Yuuri knows all too well how annoying it is to wobble up a flight of stairs when it normally would’ve been no problem to sprint up two steps at a time. To Yuuri, it had been a constant reminder of how he’d failed to look after himself.

He loves Victor too much for that.

«Hop on,» he says and crouches down. Victor blinks.

«Sorry, what?»

«I’m a day behind on training, coach. I should at least get some exercise, don’t you think?» He keeps his tone light and winks, pushing down the insistent murmur of the insecure voice in his brain with a shovel until it stays silent. Victor’s expression morphs from confusion to shock, then to something a little sheepish.

«Are you sure? I’m bigger than a backpack, you know.»

«I’d like to try, if it’s fine with you.»

Victor lets the crutches lean on the wall and limps over to Yuuri again. His hands grip firmly around Yuuri’s shoulders, and with a small hop he hooks his legs around Yuuri’s waist. Victor is by no means light as a feather; he is a hundred and eighty centimeters and eighty kilos of Olympic muscle.

Yuuri wobbles up on both feet again, Victor’s rush of breath tickling his ear. He takes a few steps forward to collect Victor’s crutches while he adjusts to the new weight, but it’s not much worse than he thought it’d be.

«Is this okay?» Having Victor’s lips right by his ear, though, that’s… distracting.

“You’re not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”

Victor huffs a laugh, squeezing his waist with his legs. «Alright, big guy, the challenge awaits.»

Yuuri takes the first flight in a slow and steady tempo, mindful of Victor’s injured ankle. It’s heavy, but he wasn’t kidding when he said he’s stronger than he looks. Back in Hasetsu he was the one they called for when there was any heavy lifting to be done, and in Detroit too; though less so with all the hockey players eager to show off their muscles.

Victor’s arms are looped around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder. He blows cold air on Yuuri’s neck and watches with glee at the trail of goosebumps that appear.

«Is this how fast you can go? My, we really should up your training, then,» he teases.

Yuuri rolls his eyes. If he absolutely wants to… that’s fine. He tightens his grip around Victor’s thighs and bounces him higher up on his back. Victor squeals, a breathless _wow_ slipping out before his arms tighten their hold on him and Yuuri dashes up the steps, taking them two at a time while Victor and their bags bounces up and down on his back.

Victor laughs, loud and bubbly into his ear until they reach the fifth floor and Yuuri slows down to a jog. He’s panting for breath, but he’s smiling too, wide and happy and mildly exhausted. They reach the top floor, finally.

«How… how’s that for a ride?» He asks. Victor is clinging to him, nuzzling into the back of his neck and Yuuri can feel the shape of his smile against his skin.

«Hmm, still think we should work on your stamina—» Yuuri huffs, and Victor’s smiles widens.

«Fish out my keys, will you?»

Victor drops them into Yuuri’s waiting palm and rests his chin back on his shoulder while Yuuri unlocks the door, dumping their stuff on the ground. Makkachin wags his tail, but closes his eyes to continue his nap rather than jump on them, which Yuuri is grateful for now that he’s walking for two.

He carries Victor to the couch and twists him into a bridal carry to gently lay him back on the cushions. Victor lifts the back of his hand to his forehead and swoons.

«You should carry me around more. It’ll be good cross-training.»

«Mmm, sure. I’m the one who’d benefit from that.»

«Of course, it’s my duty as your coach to oversee your exercise regimen, and I think you do, in fact, need to carry me around more. For the sake of the sport.»

«Of course, for the sake of the sport.»

Yuuri wanders into the kitchen for tea while Victor fiddles with the tv remote, flipping between channels for something interesting until he lands on a rerun of a cooking competition. Yuuri returns with two steaming mugs and a warm lap for him to lay his head on. Deft fingers find their way into his hair, combing the strands away from his eyes and scratching soothing circles into his scalp.

«Thank you,» he says, murmurs it into the fabric of his sweatpants like a secret. Just between the two of them. «It’s nice to be taken care of sometimes.»

A pair of warm lips press against his forehead.

«You’re welcome, Vitya. Always.»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my personal headcanon that when Victor is feeling down/not being his usual self, Yuuri will take on some confidence and be a little extra to make him smile. ♡ 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to yell(gently) at me in the comments or come say hi on Tumblr!
> 
> [my main](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vilchen)   
>  [my writing tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vilchenwriteswords)


	4. "I'll still be here when you're ready."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A handsome stranger and a night Victor never wants to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 79\. "I'll still be here when you're ready."
> 
> For Ace ♡
> 
> This one is a little sad compared to the others, so please stay safe. Enjoy!

Victor closes his eyes against the cold air, thumb brushing against the stem of his champagne flute. The stars twinkle above him, clear and diamond like on the silent backdrop of night. Behind him there’s the chatter and hum of a party, the fancy kind Victor rarely attends unless there’s a medal around his neck. He doesn’t have one tonight, which should strike him as odd, but the thought is a mere whisper in his ear, too weak to catch and hold when there are so much prettier things to count, like stars.

He doesn’t notice someone joining him out on the balcony, but between one moment and the next, someone does. Barely an elbow-length away, a man with slicked back hair and silken black gloves stands as if he’s been out there counting stars with him all along. He’s clad in an ensemble of black on black with a stark contrast of bold red, clinging and bringing forth the soft brush of long eyelashes against his cheek, a sharp jaw, the flash of teeth against his red stained lip. Victor doesn’t realise he’s still staring until their eyes meet over the rim of Victor’s glass.

The stranger’s eyes go half lidded, his smile twisting coquettish as he rests his elbows on the balcony railing and rests his chin in the palm of his gloved had.

«I see you too found your way to the best view tonight,» he says, blinking those big brown eyes at Victor, who tries his best to not make his lingering gaze too obvious. «Did no one offer to swipe you off your feet on the dance floor, or are you perhaps waiting for the right partner?»

Victor thinks there must be a joke in there somewhere, something he’s supposed to pick up on and spin back to the stranger, if the expectant curl of his lip is anything to go by. Victor, however, can’t for the life of him figure out what that would be, and his confusion seeps into his voice.

«Ah.. I— I don’t really dance at these events.»

The flirtatious look on the stranger’s face slowly melts off, the playful twinkle in his eyes dimming from glittering chandeliers to muddied silverware. Victor bites back an apology, stuck in between reaching out to touch the stranger’s shoulder or bolt out of this scene with his tail between his legs. The stranger seems to compose himself and schools his expression into something equal to a glass vase taped together with duck tape. A traitorous voice in his head asks if it would be rude to leave if he were to start crying.

«You.. don’t recognize me, do you?» The stranger asks, and Victor curses himself and parties and dancing and fresh air for guiding him out on this balcony. 

«No,» he says, eyes cast down on the stranger’s polished dress shoes to avoid whatever expression is on his face. «I’m sorry.»

Victor startles at the smooth touch of the stranger’s gloved hand tilting his chin up again, but the sound of surprise dies on his tongue.

«It’s alright. It’s not your fault.» The stranger has a small smile on his face, the sort of smile that speaks of shared history and patience and all other sorts of things Victor isn’t used to seeing up close.

«Maybe you don’t recognize me,» The fingers beneath his chin move to tickle along his jaw, and Victor leans slightly forward to follow the touch. «But you _know_ me. I know you do. So please… Will you let me show you?»

Victor is lost, lost in the sweet whisper of his voice, in the bottomless brown of his eyes, lost deep into the allure of his words. The man’s palm is warm against his cheek, even through the glove, and Victor gets a little lost in that as well.

«Yes,» he breathes, and between one blink of the eye and the next, the chilly night air around them is exchanged by the stifling heat of people pressing in close and brushing past him, champagne flutes in hand and pleasant conversation flowing freely from all directions. Victor looks around at the lavishly decorated hall and the people who’s faces are all blurry and smudged, like spilled ink.

A gloved hand comes to guide his face back to the stranger, standing much closer now than before and with his eyes half-lidded, lips parted so that every word feels intimate; a secret between the two of them.

«You said you don’t normally dance, but I hope you’ll make an exception for me.»

Another ‘ _yes_ ’, just as breathless as the one before, slips out between Victor’s parted lips, and then there’s a hand on his waist pulling him into the unfamiliar steps of a dance Victor knows by heart, one in which the whole world is a blur and only the hand on his waist is real.

They spin around the room, past dozens of faceless people whose voices blend into a melody of a string quartet, accompanied by the quivering notes of a piano. In between one spin and the next, the stranger loses his gloves, and the hold on his waist is no longer just warm—it burns, though layers of clothes and skin and bone, burns like a secret shared between them and Victor _knows_.

They come together again, misstepping as Victor suddenly pulls him closer, pulls _Yuuri_ closer until the breath they share bursts with laughter. The ceiling fades away into the open night sky, an endless field of black dotted by the clearest of stars twinkling above them, and eventually the melody between them slows down, slowly dying. Their dance ends with Victor dipped low, hovering in midair and held like a treasure above what is no longer a dance floor in a decorated hall, but a soft meadow with spring flowers tickling the back of his neck.

Yuuri looks at him, no longer clad in black and red, but in the deepest shade of blue there is and with tiny diamonds dancing on the fabric of his shoulders and chest like a mirror of the sky above them. His eyes aren’t half lidded and teasing with promise, but wide open and the clearest shade of brown he’s ever seen, framed by loose strands of dark hair brushing against Victor’s face.

«You know me,» Yuuri says again, just as breathless as Victor.

«Yes.» And it’s true, Victor knows him, knows him more intimately than his own innermost thoughts and desires, because it’s Yuuri.

It’s Yuuri, Yuuri, _Yuuri_.

«What is my name?» And it’s there, hanging in the air between them so close Victor could just reach out and touch it, cradle it in his palms like a fallen star and place it back on the sky where it beongs. But as it spins around his mind, consuming and bruning bright like a beacon in the night—

It remains just out of reach.

Victor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He tries again, tongue curling around syllables he has turned and twisted in his mind forever, syllables he knows like he would know a pebble he has carried around in his pocket for his whole life. Nothing comes out. Victor wants to cry.

But Yuuri knows, can probably see it written on Victor’s face like a half finished poem about lovers separated by time and space and the universe itself. His thumb brushes Victor’s cheek, tender and soft, brushing away tears that haven’t fallen yet.

«It’s fine, Vitya.» Each cell in his body is screaming that it’s not, the newborn fire between them weeps. Yuuri’s face, open and serene; Yuuri’s eyes, overflowing with love.

«I’ll still be here when you’re ready. Always.»

And the hands holding him let go.

* * *

Victor wakes, gasping for air. His bedroom ceiling shifts in and out of focus as he sucks in breaths in short, frantic pants, fists clenched in his sheets and with a fresh layer of sweat cooling on his skin. For a while, all he can do is lay frozen and still in his own bed as the aftershocks rock through him. A not-there feeling of fingertips caressing his cheek pulses through him.

Yuuri. Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri.

Pressure builds up behind his eyes as the dream slips between his fingers, taking Yuuri with it to somewhere far away, unreachable.

Victor turns his face into his pillow and cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so before anyone panics: there is a happy ending. which i will probably never write. 
> 
> But as the author of this piece i have the right to reveal that at some point Victor and Yuuri would live happily ever after and adopt a dog.
> 
> Feel free to yell(gently) at me in the comments or say hi to me on Tumblr!
> 
> [my main](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vilchen) for yoi reblog purposes  
> [my writing tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vilchenwriteswords) for whining, tidbits and words


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